Vaul Ferros, Ronin

Vaul strode down the hallways of the battered, and sitll burning, Executer Star Destroyer like ice sliding across hot metal. His purposeful steps lithely dancing across the worn grey deck plating, silently like a ghost floating through the throngs of sweaty bodies filling the vessel. Salvaged navymen from both sides of the nightmarish conflict congregated throughout the ravaged charter. Their faces drawn and tired from the seemingly non-stop commotion of the last few days. Vaul could see cliques forming in the masses, their whispered words speaking mutiny and distrust. They thought their words lost in the growing roucus, safe in their circles of hastily made friendship. Vaul found a grin splitting his normally unreadable countenance. Despite everything that had happened, everything that they had just moments ago lost, these men and women were still willing to lose it all. That fire made him respect his adversaries a bit more despite the foolish sentiment of it all. There were bigger problems that no one has addressed yet. The growing stench caused by failing air scrubbers lingered in the hallways like a fog grips the earth before sunrise. This vessel, even in excellent condition, was never meant to house this many bodies, the air scrubbers not meant to handle the level of CO2 that a group this large put out. However, this vessel had been hammered, many sections of this once glorious warship had been breached and left reduced to smoldering slag or on emergency power. It was only a matter of time before the mob became enraged and destroyed the rest of the Executor. The spoils of war, mearly air to breath, awarded to those still standing at the end. This vessel had become a beached whale ready and ripe for plunder. An incompetent, inexperienced crew, a lack of genuine leadership and tactical prowess, no supporting vessels, and a heavily damaged warship made for a lost cause. Vaul watched the fleet movements closely, it was only a matter of time before a renegade fragment force of the empire came to claim this ragged prize. Even if they were able to claim a shipyard, in some form of miraculous event, it would be months, or years even, before this ship could be brought up to fighting status once more. They had niether the crew or facilities to make that happen. Shaking his head, Vaul went over the events in his mind once more. His world had been torn asunder in the last few days. His personal goals rendered meaningless by the death of the emperor and the abandonment of Vader at the fall of the Death Star. To top it off, if Kir Kanos somehow managed to survive the fall of the Death Star he to would be hunting for Vauls head. Vaul was confused, his mind once black and white now muddled with oceans of grey. They were surrounded by sharks, both within and without. Chaos had descended rapidly once word of the emperors death spread. Vauls faith in the Empire was crushed as he watched so many ships turn tail and run and then break off into segments once loyal to a whole. He was able to watch the engine of war dissolve before his eyes. There was no rally, no true faith in the cause. It was apparent to him now, it was like someone removed a blanket from Vauls mind, this ship, and the cause, were lost. He had the key to the castle, so to speak, and perhaps it was time he took advantage of that fact. Perhaps, it was time to start anew with whoever came with him. The first step towards this new goal would be to get off this floating coffin and to a location that was more managable. His awareness snapped back to the present, something was wrong. He had been roaming the halls for hours and not once had he encountered a space of relative silence. Now he was greeted only be the hum of the ship and the warning klaxons above. The red strobe lights cast menacing shadows on the walls, mocking the man walking, spinning in circles like vicious spectres. The air was crisp and cool, a nearby hull breach barely contained by internal shielding was likely the cause. Vaul slowed his pace and gazed into the darkness hoping to catch something that didnt belong. He had learned long ago to trust his instincs and his gut told him something was amiss. A series of cargo crates lined the left side of the corridor that would never normally end up in this section of the ship. Vaul raced up and kicked the crates, sending them tumbling to the deck with a load clang that echoed off the walls. He was rewared with a pained grunt and a body that spilled limply to the floor unconscious. He looked down and found a man with blood pooling around a nasty gash in his temple. The gear was familiar, an infiltrator all the way down the the silenced pistol laying on the floor. As Vaul leaned down to check the pulse of his would be assailant he caught a glint of garrot pass his eyes. It looked like a string of fire as the strobes grabbed and illumanated the wire filament. He tucked his chin and threw himself backwards as it caught the vox on his trooper helmet. He was dragged several feet backwards as the wire cut its way through the tuner system and into his chin spilling blood down the front of his white armor. Vaul forced the pain down, twisted, and slammed an underhand fist into other mans genitals making a dull thud. The stangler whined painfully as his testicals collapsed, smashed flat and torn by an armored hand. His python like grip faltered allowing Vaul to reach up and snap the infiltrators wrist, spinning him around like a classical dancer and reversing the deadly clench. The man, now having his throat peeled open by his own wire, gurgled and spat blood through his respirator as Vaul dragged him deeper in to the hallway. Suppressed fire rang out from the darkness, harried shots ricocheting off the walls, peppering the wrestling pair with fragments of copper jacketing, and sinking wetly into Vauls unwilling companion. In a rain of red mist the remainder of Vauls helmet spun off as several impacts flattened against the plasteel and shattered the eye lenses. Staggered by the onslaught, Vaul wrenched his hand violently and, in a fountain of vitae, he pulled the wire down to the infiltrators spine. Casting the lifeless body aside, the ex-royal guardman-in-training whipped a concussion grenade down the hallway and dove behind the cargo crates driving his armored fingers as deeply as he could manage into his ear canals just as the blast went off. The explosion forced Vauls body to roll backwards in a wave of concussive force. He reflexively rolled to his knees and grabbed the nearest weapon. Stumbling to his feet, finding his vision was cluttered by stars and the gentle hum of the ship was now replaced by a high pitched ring, he defiantly leveled a silenced pistol at the darkenss, scanning for targets. The blast had taken out the local emergency lighting but Vaul could still make out figures rolling around on the floor. As he closed, the other two infiltrators moans could be heard like cries muffled by a pillow. They struggled to remove their helmets, clawing at the straps. Looking up from the concussive haze, they witnessed Vauls form materialize from the inky blackness, siloetted only by the red haze of distant strobe lights, they weakly grasped for their scattered weapons in a panic induced frenzy. As Vaul stood silently above them, he saw acceptance in their eyes as he emptied the magazine into their prostrate forms. Reloading the pistol, the guardsman shambled back down the hallway hoping to find one infiltrator still left alive, buried under a few crates. Finally making it back to cargo containers he found the body missing, bloody boot prints tracking a short distance down the corridor before fading off. Exhausted, Vaul collapsed against the wall and slid down to the floor beside his maimed helmet. As he ran his fingers along the surface they fell into the divets caused by the slug throwers. The broken eye sockets leering back at him, Vaul understood he was no longer a guardsman. That man died on the Death Star. . .

PART II-

The Hunt:

Vaul sat silently in the darkness allowing it to calm his racing mind. He rolled the broken helmet around in his hands, thoughtfully running his gloved fingers around the impact marks left by the crude projectiles shot by the infiltrators. Distantly, he was aware of the blood flowing freely from the delicate wire wound working its way around the buttress of his chin. The wire had caught bone, he was pretty certain of it, and would have to be mended by more professional hands after this was over. But, for the time being, he applied small blue bacta tablets, their foaming effervescents immidiately soothing, disinfecting, and helping to stem the flow of blood. The hiss of aerosol from a can of synth-skin echoed maddly in the empty hallway, like an angry dragon warning intruders to stay away, as Vaul dressed his crimson red chin with a new layer of gummy pink false-flesh. He couldnt wrap his mind around it. Why would infiltrators go through so much effort to assault a singular lowly Storm Trooper? Vaul stashed his Storm Commando gear in a secreted location and redressed himself in his ambiguous white trooper garb for exactly that reason, to be a nameless face in the abyss. Infiltrators werent known for being stupid, they had to know who they were coming for. Were they attempting to take him hostage, kill him, or what? Vaul stood up, wiping the sweat off his brow and running a hand through his shortly cropped, sandy brown, hair. Trying to shake away the confusion, he tossed his shattered helmet into an open crate, he gathered what gear he could off the deceased and dumped their bodies uncerimoniously next to his helmet. His torso plate was a bloody mess, certain to attract unwanted attention on all sides. He needed discretion now if he were to uncover any more of this puzzle and if there was anything that Vaul understood it was being a shadow in sunlight. Searching the floor, Vaul could barely make out the last infiltrators sticky red boot prints disappearing down the hallway. He followed them a short way and found the steps erratic, the right foot dragging, and hand prints on the wall would indicate the sole-survivor needed support. It occured to Vaul that, perhaps, the last infiltator was suffering from a concussion. He couldnt have gotten far, it was still possible to catch and stalk the last man. Vaul unclasped the remainder of his trooper gear, dropped it in the crate, called in a droid team to clean up the disaster in the hallway and dispose of the crate descetely in the next rubbish jetison. A grin parted his face, sending jolts of searing pain through his head. It was time to hunt.

Progress Slow:

Vaul had been lazily tracking the stunned infiltrator for hours. He watched with boredom from the shadows as the man clumsily stumbled about, bumping into and tripping over nearly everything in his path, utterly failing at his vain attempt at stealth. A poorly lubricated Jawa sandcrawler had a better chance at hiding in plain sight than this mans abyssmal example of the art of sneakiness. Vaul wasnt certain if the man was trying to throw off imaginary blood hounds by backtracking so many times or if he was legitamately lost in this cavernous vessel. Every 100 yards the masked man would collapse against the wall and slide down to the floor in exhaustion, leaving a bloody smear all the way to the bottom. He would sit there for a time, collecting himself enough to trudge ever onwards to an undisclosed location off in the darkness. It was a tedious endeavor and just as Vaul was about to lose his patience, and finish the job he started hours ealier, the infiltrator fell into a maintenance hatch and began to paw weakly at the door. The masked mans cries for aid were muffled by his malfunctioning respirator. He pleaded with the darkness to let him in as he fumbled around with an exterior keypad, attempting the code several times before the hatch finally slid open revealing a sliver of lantern light that pierced the darkness like a bolt of lightning. He shambled forward a few steps before falling roughly to the deck plating with a dull thud, the door slid shut finally concealing his body from sight. Vaul examined his surrounding for anything that may give him a clue to what was happening on the ship. There was shabbily made sign on the maintenance door stating "Caution: Hazardous Gas Leak", something that would fool most crewman on a ship of this magnitude, but to those with a scrutinous eye, and a little knowledge of Imperial Bureaocracy, would find it lacking the required stampage. It wasn't even color coded properly for a hazardous gas leak. There were tools and crates strewn about, making it look like active work was taking place. Industrial hydro-spanners, mag-drills, plasma-torches and other miscillaneous tools lined the hallway floor, imperials don't leave tools laying about unsupervised. That's a fast track to the brig and low end disciplinary duty. There had to be others left, possibly preparing for a strike on a different part of the ship right now. Vaul had to neutralize the threat before it broke the already shaky truce between the Imperials and New Republic on this odorous, over populated, Star Destroyer. Thousands more could pointlessly die if a riot broke out on the Executer because a few infiltrators had plans of their own to take the ship as a trophy from a battle that was more a catastrophe. He couldn't just march in, that would be foolish without knowing their strength and weaponry, there had to be another way. The guardsman was startled by a mouse droid chirping down the hallway, he watched it take a sharp turn into a droid service hatch next to the maintenance room. A mischevious smile tugged the corner of his mouth, his chin no longer pained the rest of his head with searing agony. Vaul touched the skin around his wound and was surprised to find it healed, only a faint impression remained of the once ragged slice. A peculiar thing that was, but he couldnt bother with that now, not while there was a mission to carry out.

Into the Lions Den:

Sgt. Timmins saw the lone infiltrator topple to the floor in slow motion. His worst fear had just been confirmed, bravo team was supposed to have reported back hours ago. It was a simple reconnassiance op that went well over mission time. He jumped off his cot and dashed over to aid the barely conscious man to a seat. His hands slipped while plopping the man down, sending him falling to the floor once more with a muffled groan. "Damnit!" Timmins barked, "Kinsee, get over here! Rigar needs medical attention, now!" He looked down at his hands and found them coated with sticky blood and carbon. The smell of powder came off the downed infiltrator like sheets of rain beating against a hab unit. "What in the Hells happened out there?" he asked himself, his eyes watering from the pungent stink. "Kinsee, bring the stims." he snapped. They had to get answers before it was too late. There was no telling if Rigar had been followed. Timmins racked a round into his Adjudicator and pressed checked its functionality. The action earned him concerned glares from everyone in Alpha team as they all followed suit in a meriad of "click-clacks". Preparing for an enemy that was still hiding in the fog of war made Timmins very uneasy. He watched Kinsee rifle through his med-kit and thought back on their relationship. Kinsee had been with Timmins since the early days of the rebellion. The man was a damn good medic with a penchant for Imperial blood. Though Timmins had never asked for details, over the years he gathered that Kinsee's family had been eradicated by chemical weapons dropped from orbit by Destroyers to quell the population of Bablor IV. The man always walked about with a boulder on his back and haunted, sallow, features. Kinsee hurried over, pulling the cap off the hypo-stim injector, the oily green chemical concotion within rolling about.

Kneeling over his fallen brother, Kinsee could tell the man had a concussion, his appearance was ghostly pale indicating a significant loss of blood, any unprotected flesh was covered in flash burns, and he would required a dozen stiches to put the flaps of scalp back together enough to hide the bloody skull beneath. Kinsee shook his head, it might kill him if he administered the stim while Rigar was in this condition. The man needed a blood transfusion and a will to survive. Kinsee looked up at Timmins and was instantly cut off by the grizzled old Sgt.

"Give him the stim, Kinsee, thats an order. We need to find out what kind of nerf-storm this is about to turn into. Give him the stim, then patch him up after we get answers." Timmins glared with severity waiting for a response that wasn't affirmative.

Kinsee turned his head away and, despite his reservations, nooded in agreement while pressing the injector nozzle into Rigars thigh. The chemicals released with an assertive hiss and the concussed infiltrators eyes shot open as his body sharply convulsed. Kinsee anticipated this, it wasnt uncommon for this to happen to those that had never taken the chemical cocktail before, and he held the man down while speaking in a calm deliberate tone "Rigar, calm down. Settle, you're safe now, Alpha team has you. Can you tell me what happened?" Kinsee felt the mans spasms ease out and his eyes began to lose alertness, rolling drunkenly around the room. "Sarge, ask him now, he's not going to make it long." he said rushing over to his med bag for supplies.

Sgt. Timmins gruffly grabbed Rigars face and pulled him into eye contact, "Listen, Rigar, you need to tell me what happened, right now!" Timmins roared with authority hoping to stoke the inner flame of the dying man.

Rigar, became very still, blood rolling from his mouth from internal bleeding, and he wetly whisped in a tang filled with sorrow "It was just a storm trooper, sarge." His body was becoming cold and foreign, Rigar knew he was dying, the edges of his vision began to darken. He heard someone calling in the distance that he was fading, he could feel their hands pushing in his chest. His heart refused to beat any longer and Rigar closed his eyes greeting the warm beyond with open arms.

"Frak!" Kinsee screamed, angrily throwing bandaging across the room. The medic couldnt take it any longer, this mission was suicide, and there was a truce now. He had grown tired of watching his brothers brought back in body bags or, worse, in pieces. "Damnit, sarge, hes dead! Dead because you wanted to push him!" he shouted while standing up agressively. The medic wanted to strike his CO in a rage. His mind was spinning, maybe it was the sleep depravation, hunger, or maybe both.

Timmins flew up into Kinsee's face and begged him "Punch me then, specialist. You want to make the big calls? Do it! You don't have the bal. . ." The Sgt.'s words were cut short as Kinsee's face exploded outwards in a shower of blood and bone blinding the old vet in a blanket of crimson. The stucatto of silenced small arms fire was only broken up by the screams of his men. The Sgt. rubbed the gore from his eyes only to be blinded by the image of a plasma torch carving its way through Eckhart, his second in command. His flesh boiled off its ultra-hot edge as it pulled through his torso leaving a steaming carbon smoke trail of melting fat in the air. The torches corona passed by close enough to singe Timmins hair and face. Blisters readily developed across his head and erupted from the heat, their juices messily dribbling down his vest. The sarge rolled over onto his belly and crawled through the grisly mess building up on the floor, searching blindly for his weapon. He heard the torch sputter out and men grunting in close combat. A body slammed into the deck with clang. The clang was replaced with the sopping noise of a serrated bladed plunging through a blast vest again and again and the blood filled coughs that would accompany it. Timmens hand brushed the grip of his pistol and he snatched it up, quickly rolling onto his back to meet his adversary. Beyond the afterimages burnt into his retina, he could make out of horrendous scene. Limbs were hanging from conduit running along the ceiling, a fog of burnt meat filled the small maintenance room, his men were all dead, but he couldnt find the one responsible. Timmens jaw erupted in pain as his teeth were punted from his mouth, tossing them across the floor like peppermint candy. A vicious stomp shattered his hand, sending the pistol gliding across the ruby red floor. In a howl of pain, the Sgt. snapped his head around and found himself staring into the bottomless muzzle of an Adjudicator. It was the void coming to claim his soul.

Vaul stared down on his quarry with interest, a Sgt. by badge, as he squirmed uncomfortably beneath the muzzle of the slug thrower. "How many others?" the guardsman said plainly. The man was struggling to speak, the kick may have broken his jaw. This wasn't lost on Vaul and he spoke with a strange kindness "Take your time, I don't have anywhere to go." The rebels face grimaced in confusion as he considered his next action. His mouth quivered while trying to form the words.

"Who are you?" the old infiltrator spat, his tongue finding the holes left by his missing teeth.

Vaul looked down incredulously, grasping for the answer that should have been there. "I don't know anymore." he spoke sullenly. Half-heartedly sending a round into the last infiltrators brain, Vaul walked out of the maintenance room and called in for a droid clean-up.

Bent Light:

Inside the vacant repair hanger a man knelt in the center of a ring painted red on the cold dura-crete floor surrounded by four heavily armored ASP droids weilding lightsabers. The droids marred safety yellow coloring contrasted brightly against their neutral surroundings. The sabers they carried cast auras across the smooth industrial surface like beacon lights on ground vehicles. They stood there impassively observing the shirtless man encompassed by them, waiting silently for some stimulus to send them into action. The man in the middle took slow deep breaths, refocusing himself for another bout against his mechanical competitors. His knuckles were caked in dried blood from physically striking his artificial enemies. Saber burns and shallow wounds cut across his hardened body like wicked, painful, hashmarks. The floor glistened with his sweat and speckled blood. Calmly, he stood and spoke to his steely adversaries "Begin." he uttered simply, sending them into assault. Saber strikes rained down upon the man, like meteors hammering a planet without atmosphere, as the droids closed in on him as one entity. He spun and weaved around the folded beams of light, deftly manneuvering himself to a advantageous position parrying his agressors strikes in a shower of embers with smooth artiface. The orange blades of the elegant light foils he wielded left burning after-images in the air like a fire-dancer at night. A matched pair, created long ago, with unparralled craftsmanship, the perfectly balanced set all but gave finesse to the user. The embattled defendor twisted passed the armored wall and brought his light-foils down in a savage double-bladed strike that sent the droid clanging into the ground, its rear plas-steel plate glowing white hot from the impact. Unfazed by the loss, the ASP droids pressed their attack directive and hacked with precise monotony at their nimble target forcing him into a flurry of defense. The man was pushed back step by step to the edge of the red ring. His arms moved with purpose arking and deflecting attacks from his unreadable enemies as he searched for an opening to escape the jaws of death. An ASP droid, with its red speckled face, pulled back its arm telling its intention and giving the man a split second to slide under the strike and sweep the fiendish golem. Its heavy legs tumbled over its head clashing with the dura-crete like an anchor being dragged over gravel. In a blur he shot up from the floor and slammed his fist into the next training bots false head as it was recalculating his movements. With a wet "gong" the droid toppled backwards onto the floor, its appendages kicking furiously to regain footing. The final ASP charged in, its servos whining as it thrust its glowing blade forward like a spear of light hoping to skewer its target. With a flick of his wrist the man set the strike akinder and jabbed his eppee into the droids cranium, the plas-steel protesting in a metalic groan. Again and again he brought his blades down in a whirlwind of orange fire setting the iron man off balance. The heavy onslaught set his enemies blade aside and severed the droids arm in a shower of sparks. Warnings howled from the droid as it slumped to the floor, hydraulic fluids pooling around its crumpled form. There, once again he stood, surrounded by assailants broken and sputtering on the floor. "End simulation" he whispered, his heart rate barely changed from its resting state. Looking up he found himself the spectacle of a small crowd of people loitering near the edge of the bay entrance. Word had gotten out there was a new jedi running around with a glowy light stick and people were curious. No matter how many times he changed locations to gain privacy, they always managed to find him. It was a disconcerting fact, especially since the man was readily anticipating attempts on his life. He scanned the crowd for threats but was greeted by a familiar face instead, Lysara, the nurse from the childrens hospital. Her face was wraught with concern but a kind smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She told Vaul to call her when he got back, a request he forgot to administer too. He conjured up an uncomfortable smile and grabbed the remainder of his training gear. "Might as well." Vaul thought regarding Lysara, but why had she come. . .

Date Night
The rich green landscape streamed past Vaul and his mysterious companion Lysara as he opened up the accellerator on the scout class speeder-bike, flattening tall grass as they screached by. Wind roared in their ears and pushed her hair into and wild spiral, the high pitched wene of the repulsor drives slicing time into pressurized gaps. Sinking just beyond the mountainous horizon, the blazing red sun cast its last warming rays across the land, saying goodnight as the twin moons rose in opposition. The ex-guardsman had major reservations when it came to her and, now that she appeared in his training bay unannounced, he found himself doubting her intentions. Too close, too soon, she couldnt have been there for him. The brief moments they shared in the childrens hospital weren't binding enough to justify this level of attachment. He'd been reading the manual Novak gave him, more than that, he had been feeling its words. Since the visitation of Palpatine in Lord Vaders chamber, Vaul had grown his presence in the force, a fact that saved his life more than once in the last week. It grew even stronger when the crimson gaurd severed his connection to the old man permanently by extinguishing his clones force-void body. Even when reading the old tome Vaul could feel its power absorbing into his body, which drank it up hungrily. It was like a sleeping part of his being had awoken from a long, deep, slumber starving to remember the knowledge it once possessed. Even with his lack of training, Vaul understood the force could be felt and manipulated without sight and without physical interaction. It wasn't exactly will either. It was an agreement between him and the ture nature of existence. When he reached out into the force, he could feel the current of power surround and pass through him. Strumming its cords allowed great manifestations of the force. At the edge of his hearing, universal harmonics played out a beautiful rythm which brought Vaul peace. He once trained only to kill men, which was something he was quite good at, but now his old hate-forms bled out dieing, grounded by the musical harmoy, as he was simultaneously replenished by an unfamiliar serenity. It was his fear that held him back in the past, he saw this now. The force isnt something you grow to understand, it's simply unfathomable, it's something you grow to accept, as it is, no matter its representation. The speedometer on the speeder-bike pegged out, the red gauge needle lazily bouncing off its bumper stop. Lysaras arms squeazed tighter around Vauls iron like abdomen, the tension causing physical arousal in the soldier. His body warmed with the hormones flooding into his system. Reaching out, he could feel her anxiety buired deep withing. She had practice obscuring her emotions from others, a thought that did not ease his suspicions of her. Beyond these notions, the book was a cry for help from Novak himself. If his own writings were to be believed, he too was a prisoner of the Master. He was able to hide his true intentions from the Master by implementing a mental matrix, of sorts, given to him by a Jedi named Grey. If the man was still living, he was a person Vaul desperately needed to confir with. The writings made him sound immensely powerful and educated in the force. If he was a danger to the Master, he was a friend to the gaurdsmans cause; stability of the galactic whole.
Solid Drop
The speeder bike parked at the edge of a enormous peak in the mountain range, the spectacle below was breath taking. Around a small fire sat Vaul and Lysara, red faced and intoxicated by the evening, several empty bottles of Tapani Radiance glinted in the fire light. Laughter broke up the silent night, the small talk was coming to an end, Lysara leaned in close and whispered seductivelely "You haven't told me anything about yourself! Silly jokes aren't a substitute, you know." She smiled warmly and Vauls heart skipped a beat. He considered her words, no matter how charming she was, he couldn't get past the feeling she was seeking something more, or lulling him into a stuper for an easy kill. "Maybe she's an assassin." he thought grimly, but he couldn't get a proper read of her true form. Between the alchohol and desire it was difficult to tell what she was up too. It had been many years since the Vaul had a significant other, this was a realm he felt rusty and inept in. "Theres not much to tell, really." he said. "Just the usual family I haven't seen in two years!' Vaul let out, laughing sadly. His parents forbid him to join the Empire, he did it anyways believing in the cause. He wanted to bring stability to the galaxy but, looking back, maybe it had not been the wisest choice. He wanted to leave home since five. His father was an abusive and hateful man, constantly beating on his mother, and child ,when Vaul did step in. Horek, his father, was a spice trader and an empty man seeking fulfillment in phyical possession and power over those weaker than himelf. Vaul was never fond of that disposition and, on his 18 birthday, he beat his father into a deep coma then stormed off to join the empire. Last he heard, his father was a vegitable slurping food from a straw while droids changed his diapers. However, Vaul always sent his credits to his mother, wishing her happiness and asking forgiveness, but never recieved a reply form his mother. His mind raced to find an answer that was impossible to find. In truth, Vaul knew his mother liked the abuse, her pain-body desperately seeking to fulfill its own story, played in repeat, again and again, to its own satisfaction. He looked deep into Lysara's eyes, gauging her spirit rather than disposition, and acknowledged the fact "I nearly killed my father. I beat him so badly, before I left for basic, that I permanently damaged his brain." Vaul looked down, dredging up his hidden thoughts. "I broke every bone in his face, an skulll, while enlghtening him to the fact that pummeling his spawn was a bad idea." Vauls fist clenched instinctevely while he looked back at Lysara. She was not repulsed by the events Vaul described and whispered "I wish my own parents hadn't abused me. I wish you were there to save me. . . " Passion erpupted with her spoken words, and there they spent the night obliterating foul memories in sexual release.